


We Can Do Better

by dcjuris



Series: Being Human [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Human Castiel in the Bunker, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Suicidal Castiel, Suicidal Thoughts, Wincest - Freeform, established wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2017-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-07 19:38:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12848124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcjuris/pseuds/dcjuris
Summary: Being human takes a toll on Cas. The Winchesters could be better emotional role models. (These works are not in any order at all, other than the way they come to me).





	We Can Do Better

Dean makes his second pass through the bunker kitchen, gnawing on his bottom lip. There's a sense of impending doom circling in the back of his mind, sending out little pulses to his belly. Something's not right. Something's... _wrong_. He heads into the library. "You seen Cas lately?"

Sam looks up from whatever dusty collection of ancient wisdom he's had his nose in all day. "Not since breakfast. Why?"

Huh. The feeling intensifies. He tries for nonchalant as he wipes his palms on his jeans and shrugs. "I've been all over the bunker and I can't find him."

"I'll ping his phone." Sam slides his laptop over and opens it up, spends a few minutes clicking around and typing at a furious pace Dean has always—secretly, mind you, and if you tell Sam he'll deny it—been jealous of.  "That's weird."

"What?"

"It says he's outside. Out back." Sam looks up at him, nose scrunched. "Maybe he wanted some fresh air?"

Every internal alarm bell Dean has starts clanging. "Yeah, maybe not. C'mon."

Dean sets a brisk pace through the halls and out the hidden side door that leads into the woods beyond. Sam's on his heels, no doubt feeding off the worried energy spilling from his older brother. They don't get far before Sam grabs for his arm and tugs. 

"Dean!" His voice is an urgent whisper, a combination of  _holy shit_ and  _big brother, what do we do?_

Cas is sitting under a tree, leaning against the trunk, legs crossed. And he's holding... Fuck. He's holding a pistol in his lap. 

"Cas?" Dean approaches slowly, crouches about a foot away from him. "Whatcha doing, buddy?"

"I can't do this anymore, Dean." Cas doesn't look up at him, just keeps staring down at his hands, one wrapped around the pistol grip, the other cradled under it almost reverently. 

Dean licks his lips and swallows, forces his voice to remain even and calm. "Do what?"

"Be human. It's too much. It's just…it's all too much."

"Okay. I get it. I do." Beside him, Sam shifts his weight. It's an unconscious reaction to Dean's words—Sam's worried too, nervous and upset for their friend, but also because of the memories the situation stirs. But there's no time to indulge that now. "I've been right where you are, Cas. I have. But this isn't the answer. It wasn't the answer for me, and it's not the answer for you. Why don't we go inside and talk about it?" He holds his hand out. "Gimmie the gun, and lets go talk." _Please, please give me the gun_. 

Cas raises his head. Tears flow freely down his cheeks—have been flowing for a while, judging by his red, puffy eyes. "I don’t think talking will help."

"Humor me." Dean reaches out slowly...slowly... He wraps his fingers around the barrel and tugs gently, pulls the gun away. 

Sam extends a hand down to help Cas up as Dean stands and shoves the pistol in the back of his jeans. It’s a heavy, cold weight on the walk back inside. 

They keep him between them out of some unspoken decision and lead him to the kitchen. Dean's not sure why, but most of the important conversations he can recall in his life have been in a kitchen. Or kitchenette. Kitchen adjacent, anyhow. They sit him down. Sam sits next to him, but Dean stays on his feet. He's too amped up to sit. 

"All right." Dean leans back against the counter and folds his arms across his chest. "Talk to us."

It's a minute or two before Cas finds his voice, and when he does, it's little more than a rough whisper. "I just...these emotions. There's so _many_ of them. I don't… I don't even know what half of them are. I'm happy one minute and sad the next or angry but I don't know what I'm sad about or angry over and I can't control it. I don't know what's causing it. But I can't keep them in anymore. I just can't."

Sam lays his hand on Cas' arm. "Cas, you don't have to keep them in."

"That’s what you both do."

And how the fuck do they respond to that? 'Cause he ain't wrong. They're both completely shit at this kind of thing—Sam less than him—but neither of them are the top of anybody's lifeline list, except possibly each other's.

Sam makes a wounded little half-gasp-half-noise and looks up at Dean like he holds all the answers to the questions of the cosmos. 

Dean sighs and shakes his head. "We're not exactly role models for this kinda thing. Me an' Sam, we're fucked up, both of us. We're not great at dealing with things the healthy way. There wasn't time for feelings growing up—Dad didn't want to know what scared us or upset us. He couldn't deal with his own shit, let alone two snot-nosed brats. We were always onto the next monster. I had to bury everything, push it down. And that's what I taught Sam. That's on me. So yeah, we suck at this, but we can do better. We  _will_  do better. We're here for you when you need us, man."

Cas lowers his head. "I hate being weak."

"It's not weakness. Cas." Sam rushes in. "There's strength in admitting your problems, in facing them. If you need to vent or sit on the couch and watch a crappy movie with a pint of ice cream, we're in."

"Oh, were definitely in if ice cream is involved." Dean winks at Sam, trying to lighten the mood just a bit. 

"I don't know what I need."

"And that's fine too. Sometimes…" Sam takes a deep breath. "Sometimes, my thoughts get really dark. I start to dwell on the things I've done wrong. The demon blood, Lucifer. It all just…piles on. There's nothing I can do about it. There's nothing anyone can _say_ that’s going to make it better. But if I can be close to Dean, just, be around him, it helps. Because I know, no matter how many times I fuck up, Dean loves me. We love _you,_ Cas. No matter what. You're important to us."

Dean's so goddamn proud of him for sharing that.

"I'm just so tired, Sam. I'm so _tired_. I can't sleep. I see them in my dreams, and when I wake up, I can still hear them."

"Them?"

"The angels."

"Like…angel radio?" Dean figured that went the way of the dodo when Metatron kicked everyone out of Heaven. 

"No. Not...I can't hear The Host anymore. When they fell. I hear them…my brothers and sisters...screaming in agony. Over and over. I don't know how to make it stop. I try to put it out of my thoughts. I try and I try and I just…I can't make it stop." His voice breaks on the last word. He curls in on himself, shoulders shaking, and buries his face in his hands. 

They know about the nightmares—it's impossible not to when he wakes screaming every night. He's shrugged off their offers to help, but admittedly they didn't try all that hard. They should've. They definitely will now. Dean steps closer and slips an arm around Cas' shoulders. Sam rubs his back. Cas leans into Dean, sobbing, claws a hand into his shirt and hangs on like he's afraid of falling. And maybe he is. 

Sam looks up at Dean after a few minutes. "I have an idea."

***

Four hours later, after checking on Cas for the umpteenth time, Dean comes back to the living room. 

"He still asleep?" Sam asks. 

"Yep. Snoring like a baby bear. Xanax, man. It's a freakin' wonder drug." 

"I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner."

Neither of them did, and it just goes back to how much they suck at this. "Hey, I didn't either. We're not used to worrying about him like this."

Sam scoffs. "You worried about him all the time before he fell."

"Yeah, but then it was like, _oh crap, what if he does some stupid angel thing_. Not _oh, crap, what if he does some stupid human thing_."

"How'd you know he was that far gone?"

Dean shrugs and toes at a scuff mark on the floor. "He's been off the last couple days. Reminded me of you that time in El Paso."

Sam doesn't say anything, just pats his thigh.

Dean takes the invitation, laying down on the couch with his head pillowed on Sam's leg. He lets Sam fuss over him. He wouldn't normally, no matter how much he wanted to, but he knows it's something Sam needs right now too. His baby brother runs large, fine-boned hands through his hair, rubs at his scalp with caluoused fingers. He'd almost been too late in El Paso, hadn't recognized the signs quick enough. It's his worst fear: losing Sam—and these days Cas—that way. Not to a hunt gone wrong, or a misstep, or a danger he can't predict. But to something he _should've_ seen. Something he _should've_ stopped. Something he _could've_ stopped.

He flops over and pulls up Sam's shirt, presses his face to his brother's belly and breathes in his scent. Sam's skin is soft and warm here, like a baby's, and it's probably seven different kinds of fucked up, but it soothes Dean. It reminds him of a time when they were just Sam and Dean—not hunters, not The Guys Who Saved the World, or even The Guys Who Saved the World After They Kinda Damned It. 

"He's gonna be all right, Dean. We'll get him through it. Like you said, we'll do better."

He nods. They will. If nothing else, they'll be watching Cas like a pair of hawks for the foreseeable future. But that doesn't do much to silence the worries and doubts swirling in his mind. Booze would help, but he's too damn comfortable to get up and get it, and just a little too unwilling to let Sam go, even for a few minutes. He jabs a thumb over his shoulder toward the tv. "Turn that on, will ya?"

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also a published author. If you like my writing style, check out my published works on Amazon by searching "DC Juris" - that's me. :-)


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